


Barbs

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Drama, Fiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-20
Updated: 2005-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Is Krycek delirious or nursing revenge in Mulder's closet?





	Barbs

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Barbs

### Barbs

#### by Griva

  


**BARBS**  
Rating: NC-17  
Note: this wasn't planned, but I was hinted that a sequel to Shards could be nice. Well, run for cover _now_. It's Krycek's POV. And he is as badass as some of you like him to be. My gratitude and chocolate hearts go to Elly for speedy beta. 

WARNINGS: General and sexual torture implied, as well as some physical violence and non-con, although they are not very graphically described. If seriously, it's not THAT terrible. 

* * *

I close my eyes and let my mind wander. There is a distinct pain in my head where he has pistol-whipped me. What troubles me is the dull throb in my heart that even I do not know the cause of, but suddenly I feel the need to see the light again. I WANT to live. The coldness is creeping in me like veins that never seem to fall out of love with the sun's rays. I can't rely on his upright ethics prevailing - he got me here, he might as well as dispose off my body later. He's Eff-Bee-Eye, the punishing sword of unreliable blindfolded justice. He's got LAW on his side and a red-headed partner gone missing for a long time. He **HATES ME.**

The smell of him is lingering so heavy in the back of my throat, with the moan I can't suppress. The fucking tape...I push the air laboriously through my nose. My luck it has stopped bleeding. 

I wheeze. 

I'll burn this CD of you into my memory. As the memory of you burns between my thighs... 

Satisfied. Were you? I hear the glass shatter. Shards hitting the floor. Wanna play more, baaa-by? 

You already made me hurt, made me bleed. Made me beg for mercy on my knees. Hit me, kicked me. Then said you wanted to PLEASE ME! Give me what I want. Touched me, held me, kissed me... till I nearly suffocated. Hit me again from behind. I fell through the floor into the fiery abyss. Burnt and writhed...touched the sky. Fallen low, getting so high. 

Came back to my senses with my face buried in his costly clothes... 

What is it that you plan doing to me, stalking there, behind the closet door? Throw me off the roof and laugh. Chain me to the bed and fuck me harder...throw yourself onto me. Blindfold my eyes, cheating my sight. Cheating YOUR sight? Hit me, kick me, whip me...PLEASE ME, as you claim? 

And throw me down when you've had enough... 

That god-awful wailing he must be calling classical music has stopped. It's all quiet. I wonder how much time has gone by. 

I drift, semi-conscious. My elbows hurt but at least the cuffs are not as tight as your average police pig would fix them. Oh yeah, he CARES. I peer at my bare scarred knees. The strip of stained cotton - my ripped sweatshirt - is hanging from my neck and covering my groin. It is all that is left of my clothes. 

Except for once, he never hit me in the face. 

Doesn't matter. 

Mulder, I am going to make you hurt before you die. 

I feel warmer when the rage and hope broils in my veins. What kind of conversation must an inquisitor, or someone else with the task of torturing another person, have with their prey? There won't be no Lying Bastard then. It strikes me that when you will be in my total power, there should be an intense period of honesty, with the exception when lies would be told to cause the victim more pain. I don't really see why the tormentor - me - would lie about anything, the casualty - you - are about to be killed anyway. 

\"Why are you doing this?\" Your mouth would stumble over the words, still feeling awkward from having your lips spread so wide by your gag. Ignoring your question, I'd walk across the floor and pause at the light switch before illuminating the chamber, \"True pain lasts minutes, usually days or weeks. I am going to make this last the rest of your life.\" 

If you'd want to live that long. 

Think about how it would be for me slicing one of your fingers to be telling you about my deepest sexual desires at the same time. You wanted to hear them out, right? You wanted to get into my HEAD, asked me if LYING to you gets me off. You will learn. I won't hesitate to make any attempt to hide the sexual gratification I received from causing you agony, I'd make it clear. I'd display how hard I am while peeling your blood-crusted hair from your forehead, and I would take joy in the confusion that mixes with the soundless cry that your face would scream when I'd make a barbed-wire collar and place it around your neck. I could make incisions between your ribs with my one hand and have a good grip on my cock with another. As a particularly heavily infected case of jerk-off-it-is, you'd appreciate my practiced wanking technique. My fingers would quiver over the handle of my knife every time I climax, and you'd begin to prepare yourself for the possibility that you are going to be raped physically as well as mentally. Oh no, I'm not falling that low. All the while I`d be telling you about my not so bad childhood memories, but they would get worse and more informative when I speak about the military school in Murmansk and boot camp in Kazakhstan and my travels to Chechnya and Pakistan. Yes, I have travelled around. I was both a subject in interrogation chambers and stood by the Morley Man when he was interrogating the high-brow and the low-life. Scenes as disturbing to you as this one - that is half-delirium half-desire - would flow from my mouth, and you'd conjecture that these things must at least be partially to blame for the way I am now. You'd see the scars across my body you have already touched and probed, now I'd back up their stories of abuse, and you'd shudder at the certainty that what they are telling you is true. 

Right as you'd wonder if concentrating on what they say might distract you from your pain, you'd feel a slice near your testicles. Not a deep one, not yet. Oh, that's petty, but I want to see you jolt and then still, shrinking away in your skin from the point of my knife, fresh sweat breaking on your arms that are wrenched back and on your heavily bruised, yet still smooth chest. This is not for the kicks, I would tell you. This is because you have unmanned me, Mulder. Taken what I would have given willingly, if you ever hinted, be you my friend or my enemy. 

This won't come to pass. 

Suddenly the realization that even if you live through this, you would be horribly maimed would resonate through your thoughts. Misery would strike you as hard as the pain of having your genitals removed slice by slice. Now, you don't need to know that I won't bother to castrate you. I Bet.You.Will.Remember.This. You might not ever get it up again, Mulder. For any-fucking-one. 

At least you haven't shed a tear yet. You are a smug package with an attitude, Mulder. That makes things more interesting. That's why I might change my mind... 

The smile that would paint my face is sickening, but when you'd look away, you'd only see my most obvious sexual arousal. You'd feel physically ill, your stomach squeezing in an attempt to wrench all its contents out onto your oppressor, but the thought that it may only further arouse me would only make you clench your teeth shut. By now you would be able to smell and see a sheen of sweat on my body from the activities, and you'd rejoice as I'd apparently stop what I'm doing, and sheath my knife. What is left of your eyebrow would raise as I'd pat your hand gently, threading my fingers through your slick dirty hair, then run them lightly over your clammy skin, over the forehead and nose and cheekbones. 

I wouldn't maim your face too. Because once it was the loveliest one on a man or a woman I have encountered. The blood profusion is only from a deep cut over your left eye-brow. Your fault - you tried to lunge at me while my knife was too close to your face. Your luck you haven't lost an eye. 

/"You wanted to be with me, pal? You will be. Mine. Plaything. I can play with you for so LONG until you crawl to me and BEG me to take you and turn you inside out and fuck you and fuck you again if only that could CHANGE anything."/ 

But it won't. Because I believed in you, Mulder. And you never gave me a chance to speak a word in my defence. 

It's hard to breathe all of a sudden when I acknowledge it. You would shake your head when I told you this and the light of hope would spark in your eyes that are the colour of bloodshot peridot. 

Too late, Mulder. You won't outsmart me. 

Then I would wink. 

You would scream with fear and pain and frustration, and would be struck across the face with such force you'd begin to go dizzy. What did you expect, lovely? You would know your wounds are not nearly fatal. Just a decoration that suits you well. Especially the amateurishly pierced nipples. Your luck I have used the wire and not the three inch nails. 

I would throw my head back in laughter and taunt, \"On a second thought, scream until you go hoarse, no one will hear you, and it will add to your pain.\" 

Or does this sound trashy? I try to mouth the words and taste the fucking tape. 

How does one sneeze with his mouth taped over? This dust smelling of expensive aftershave is making my head heavier as a drum...I'm swimming without water, in the plum coloured maze of my imagination. There was one precious memory out of the night of what you had called retribution. You were grinding my face into the concrete wall of the garage while your dick was doing the deed and you kept repeating this is what I deserve I deserve I deserve... And I kept nodding and whining yes yes yes, mocking you, spitting out dry paint chips. 

You bit my shoulder, brutally, and went stiff...and lost it. Moaned _no_ as you came. And this is when my dick stirred. 

You got off on me being a wimp. You climaxed overwhelmed by disgust at _yourself_. 

I know your secret now, pretty. All I need is to tell you what you want to hear. Kiss your fucking righteous feet. Like decaying apple peels, regret was unwinding in your shadowed eyes when I crumpled at your feet, feigning abeyance, the fear for my life driving jumbled words out of my dry throat. Bare facts and forged repentance. And so now you know now that nothing you do to me will bring your partner back. I was just a cog, and I'm lucky to be still alive after the op was over. 

You spat in my face and told me that we could have everything if I told you. You believed me. If you were crying, there was too much sweat on your face and the only bulb was fly-shat and too dim for me to notice. 

I don't care if you cried me a river, Mulder. Because you were lying. First of all, to yourself. 

It started when you didn't shake my hand. It was _your_ choice. 

Everything that should be with you, isn't. 

Anything that could be, won't... 

A spasm jerks me out of thinking blood-curdling thoughts. If I pee on his overpriced shoes, it won't be my fault. I snigger painfully at my own preference of being tied to the bed than stuffed in a closet. Dirty secret. Dirty... 

I nearly topple over when he jerks the door open. 

His voice is pleading. To come around. To speak. 

I'm not pale, you fucker. Call it sallow. 

My lips are cracked but I can undo them. I take a shuddering breath. 

My lids flutter. Just give me a moment...my arms are without sensation. 

I know what you want to hear, Mulder. I _know_ what you want me to be. 

I smile. 

*end  
June 19th, 2005   
  

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Griva


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